


and is never shaken

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Series: sonnetverse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM themes, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Estd relationship, Fluff, Kinda, M/M, Mentions of Mysrade, Military Kink, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a hot mess, So is John, They’re in their twenties, but it is solved at the end, gagging, mild breathplay, slight miscommunication, submissive Sherlock, tie as sexual aid, very light angst, with sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-05-25 14:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14979029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: He knows John likes it. That much is positively certain. John likes doing things like that- pinning Sherlock against various surfaces, pulling his hair until he’s gasping, coming on his face. John Watson, for all of his gentlemanly ethics and jumpers, is decidedly non- gentlemanly in bed.Alternatively: Sherlock and John realise they may have a bit of a kink.(can be read as a standalone piece)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> honestly this is just smut, with no redeeming quality whatsoever. enjoy!
> 
> For the benefit of new readers: Sherlock and John are both mid twenties, and John is currently an army medic, working for the RAMC and coming home occasionally from deployment.

Distance does make the heart grow fond, John decides. But only for a few days.

Of course, he loves Sherlock. More than anything else on this earth. More than life itself. He’d die for him. All of that.

But none of that matters, not one little bit, when Sherlock is bored.

***

“Bored! Bored! Bored!” Each syllable punctuated by a loud gunshot. John hurries into the living room, fearing the worst, instincts sending his adrenaline shooting through the roof. He barrells in, already poised to push Sherlock out of harm’s way- take the bullet if necessary-

” _BORED_!”

John stops short when he sees the scene in front of him, Sherlock, dressed in the same dressing gown and ratty pyjamas he’s been wearing for the past three days, shooting into their wall- with the lovely Victorian wallpaper, no less-

“What.” John says quietly, and Sherlock turns towards him, arm still raised to shoot into the wall a fourth time. “Are you  _insane_?” he finally blurts out, tearing across the room and snatching the gun out of Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock looks affronted, as though John’s offended him on some great, personal level. John, shaking his head incredulously, empties the gun and shoves it into the waistband at the small of his back.

He looks expectantly at Sherlock, awaiting some kind of response. He quickly reassures himself that he’s not injured- the only thing that’s been compromised is their wall- which Ms Hudson is surely going to take out of the rent.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as though John is just being tiresome, as  _usual,_ and with a great, put-upon sigh, flops dramatically onto the sofa.

“You- you  _absolute nutter_!” John blazes. “You could have gotten hurt! Could have given Ms Hudson a heart attack- could have gotten us both arrested and me discharged, for God’s sake. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with me?” sherlock challenges, eyes glinting. “What’s wrong with  _me_? What’s wrong with the rest of the world, may I ask? Does it have to be so  _dull_? My brain is rotting, John- rotting! Give it another few days and there’ll be nothing left of it but  _mush!_ ”

John rolls his eyes, turning his back on his ridiculous boyfriend and goes to make them both some tea. “I’m making tea,” he announces to Sherlock.

Sherlock makes a noise of enormous disgust. “Tea,” he spits out the word like it’s  _Mycroft._ “I need something stronger. Seven percent stronger.”

“Absolutely out of the question,” John says mildly from the kitchen. The best way to deal with Sherlock when he was in one of his moods, he’d realised, would leave him to his own devices. Sure, he’d probably burn all of John’s jumpers or turn the bathroom into a hazardous zone, or even, as had been the case last month- decide to take the blender apart- resulting in a minor explosion. But if John got involved, Sherlock would shout at him, John would shout back, and this would either result in them shagging, or John walking right out of the flat.

In fact, the sex last night seemed to have worked. Flip him over and fuck him into the mattress and the bloke is blissfully, mercifully quiet. For all of four hours. John had woken up in the morning to go for a run, and by the time he’d come back, Sherlock had been chain smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, surrounded by seven different brands of tobacco.

“Experiment,” he’d muttered to an exasperated John.

  
“Are you planning to make your lungs a casualty in this experiment?” John countered, sweeping away the boxes into the bin and popping the cigarette from Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock hadn’t replied, simply glared at him mutinously and left, shutting himself in their bedroom for the rest of the day.

John isn’t bored, though. He would be content to never touch another case again, would prefer to just be lying down on their sofa and watching telly, letting the sounds of Baker Street and Sherlock’s restless energy settle around them. He knows Sherlock can’t stand the quiet, needs distraction from the noise in his head- but for John, Sherlock is everything. When he’ll leave for his next deployment, this is all John will have to keep him sane before he can see him again. It terrifies him, how empty he feels without Sherlock next to him, almost as though he’s missing a part of himself.

“Well, are you making tea or growing the leaves yourself, John?” he demands from the living room, and John finds the empty carton of milk and aims it at his head.

***

“He needs a case,” John whispers into his mobile. He can hear Sherlock shouting at the television from the kitchen.

“I thought the detective thing was working,” Greg replies. He’d evidently been in the middle of a meal.

“Yes, well-”   _Of course he’s not the father! Look at the turn ups on his jeans!”_ -nothing is good enough for him. The last good case he had was last month, and-” John groans, resting his head against the wall. “Please, greg, I think I’m going to murder him. You’ll have to arrest me and everything, it’s going to be a shit experience for us all. He needs a case. Any case. I think even a 5 will do at this point.”

Greg takes a deep sigh. “Well, I was just about to call him actually. Last time he called me an ape with a magnifying glass, didn’t really want to ask the bastard for help after that, but well, I’m desperate.”

“Brilliant, so am I. I haven’t been able to heat up anything today, there are sheep brains in the microwave.”

A beat of silence.  Probably Greg sympathising with John and wondering how he puts up with Sherlock at all. If he’d asked, John would have said,  _he’s got a fantastic arse._ The real reason would have been, because Sherlock is the most brilliant, amazing, handsome, clever, hilarious man he’s ever met, and yeah, he’s a right prat sometimes but John loves him and that’s enough for him.

“Think he’s up for a locked room murder? It’s been fucking me up for a week, didn’t call Sherlock cause I thought I’d be able to do it myself but…” he sighs, and John is so unbearably  _happy_ to hear that sign of Greg’s frustration, because a frustrated NSY with no leads means a happy Sherlock and  _oh,_ John could cry from the relief.

“But you’ve reached the end of your tether?”John prompts. “Need the world’s greatest detective to whip you up a solution, solve your seemingly unsolvable case?”

“Shut up and get him here,” Greg snaps, “I’ll text you the address,” and hangs up.

***

Later on, John decides that it was  _at least_ an eight, by Sherlock’s standards. Despite the fact that they almost died. John already has one stressful job (two if he counts taking care of Sherlock) he really shouldn't burden himself with another one. But, he thinks, staring at Sherlock’s bright silver eyes and his manic  _It’s Christmas!_ expression, it really is quite worth it.

The single murder he had deduced turned out to be  _twins,_ so when they’d been smushed up next to each other inside a supply cabinet at Robert William’s house, they weren’t expecting two of them to turn up.

“Wait here,” the mad git whispers at him, and tears out of their hiding place.

Two minutes later John hears a gunshot and goes barrelling out himself, only to find both of them aiming guns at Sherlock, and Sherlock looking bored to death, deducing exactly  _why_ the bullet had ricochet and hit that expensive lamp instead-  _by the way, Mr. Williams, how was Morocco_?”

He causes a distraction, brings out his gun, and in the ensuing chaos, Sherlock disarms them both, and well, John comes close to shooting a man.

He almost did, but instead he decides to ram the gun into his skull while Sherlock uses his scarf to strangle the other one to unconsciousness.

“You- you- you  _idiot,_ ” John seethes, stuffing his gun into the small of his back, and then smashing Sherlock up against a wall and kissing him. The lamp shakes on it’s little table, threatening to fall.

“Well,” Sherlock replies thoughtfully, John’s fingers still curled into his shirt. “We caught him, didn’t we?”

John glowers at him. “When we get home,” he threatens. “I’m going to punch you _so hard._ ” He pulls back from him, scowling, directs his attention to the two unconscious bodies on the floor.

“Looking forward to it,” Sherlock replies brightly, tapping the keys on his phone. Probably to call Lestrade.

***

Replace ‘punch’ with another word, Sherlock thinks, and John would actually be telling the truth.

John pushes him against the wall as soon as they enter the building. Sherlock is not prepared for it, was expecting John to at least wait before they get upstairs, but John’s mouth is on his, and his hands are curled into the lapels of his coat, and John has him pinned against the wall with his hips, so not only can Sherlock not voice his opinion, he doesn’t want to, either.

“God, he had a _gun_ on you,” John breathes against his lips, sounding bewildered. “He had a gun on you, what if I’d come a second late?”

“But you didn’t,” Sherlock points out, trying to catch John’s lips again. John’s eyes, burning cobalt, locked on his.

“You have no idea,” John admonishes him, his lips latch onto Sherlock’s neck and suck, right above his pulse point. Sherlock gasps when John nips him, hips buck up against John’s crotch. “how easy it would be to lose you,” John finishes, and his hands cup over Sherlock’s ears, bringing his face down so he can press their lips together. It’s hard and bruising, eclipses every other thought from Sherlock’s brain. Sherlock squirms, trying to wrap his arms around John, but John is pressed so close against him, than he can do nothing but press his palms to John’c chest.

Thump-thump-thump, the rapid beating of his heart. John’s tongue, slick and hot, swiping into his mouth like John swept into his life, making everything else dull and boring and ordinary.

“You’re absolutely  _mad,_ ” John says breathlessly, voice hitching when Sherlock pulls him closer, spreads his legs so John can thrust against him more effectively. He’s already hard, the both of them are, Sherlock can practically feel the blood rushing in his ears.

Sherlock turns his head so John can mouth along his neck, bite down on the ridge of his collarbone. “You say it- say it like it’s a bad thing.”

John, sucking a bruise onto his clavicle, hums. “Wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Sherlock nods, because  _obviously,_ and then fists a hand into John’s collar so he stills, and Sherlock can bend down and whisper in his ear, “Fuck me, right here. Please.”

“Was planning to,” John replies, and  _oh,_ Sherlock swallows. John can probably feel his cock twitch in his trousers at the matter-of-factness of the statement, because when he tilts his face up to look at Sherlock, and smiles, his favourite crude, flirtatious smile, the one that John probably doesn’t even  _know_ looks like that, as if he’s already imagining the object of his gaze naked, writhing, moaning.

The object should necessarily, always, invariably be Sherlock, of course.

“Good,” Sherlock nods, panting, and then John is taking off his coat, throwing it over the little table with the vase. Then he attacks Sherlock’s jacket, ripping it off of him and throwing it to join the little pile of discarded apparel. Off goes the scarf, off goes Sherlock’s gloves.

Once he’s finished John kisses him again, hands curling possessively over his hips, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to bruise. John kisses like he does everything else: competently and effectively, leaving no room for doubt or complaints. He bites down on Sherlock’s lips because he knows he likes it, and when Sherlock mewls in response he smirks.

“Yes?” John asks.

  
“Yes.”

“Gonna fuck you till you forget your  _name,_ ” John promises, turning him around roughly, keeping him locked there with a forearm to the back of his shoulders. Sherlock’s mouth falls open, his cheek pressed against the wall.

“That’s not a challenge. The real accomplishment would be fucking me into forgetting  _yours._ ”

John laughs, an adorable huff of breath so at odds with John’s otherwise predatory body language. Sherlock is so in love with him it  _hurts._ He removes his arm and instead soothes his hands down Sherlock’s sides, pressing a kiss to one bony point of a shoulder.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he decides, and then starts to fiddle with Sherlock’s zipper.

“Lube- in your pocket. Tube of Vaseline,” Sherlock reminds him. It wasn’t placed there because Sherlock was expecting sex in the foyer, of course, but John has naturally chapped lips and sometimes Sherlock knows he keeps it with him sometimes, and has deduced that he  _definitely_ has it tonight.

“Shhh,” John hushes him, and pulls at his earlobe with his teeth. Sherlock bites his lip and presses himself against the wall, aching for friction.

John finally gets the zipper off and down his trousers go, and his pants, and Sherlock immediately curves his back and tries to press his arse against John’s crotch. John makes a tch tch noise and and pushes Sherlock back against the wall, smacking one arse cheek to rebuke him. It stings, and Sherlock moans. Not much of a rebuke when John knows how much he likes it.

“Remember, you harlot, that you have to be quiet because Ms H is going to be back soon.” John pins his wrists against the wall on either side of his neck as if to drive the point home. “Say yes, John.”

“Yes John,” Sherlock obliges, and then John lets go of him, holding one hip in one hand and slipping in a finger.

Sherlock makes an undignified squeak at the abrupt intrusion, but John is excellent at this, because soon he’s got two fingers inside of him and Sherlock is scabbling at the wall, begging him to  _get on with it, already._ John tells him to be quiet each time, but despite the fact that John is using his Soldier Voice, Sherlock can’t keep it down.  The empty tube of vaseline lies right next to his foot, the cap lost somewhere in the foyer.

“You’re so- fucking-  _loud,_ ” John whispers, punctuating each syllable with a thrust of skilled fingers. He finds his prostate in record time, crooks his fingers and Sherlock groans, shoving his hand towards his cock to jerk himself off. John’s fingers still, and instead he grabs Sherlock’s wrist and pins it behind his back. Sherlock. caught off guard with the sudden movement, gasps.

“Touch yourself and I’m done,” John warns him. “Capiche?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock replies raggedly, his cock leaking at the finality in John’s voice. John says these kinds of things with easy authority, as though there is no question of Sherlock disobeying. He wouldn’t though, not when John’s like this, when John’s like this he could ask him  _anything_ and Sherlock would do it, then drop to his knees and beg to be ordered around some more

John’s hands fall from his wrist and come to rest at his hips. The hush of a zipper as John releases his own cock, and it presses, hard and demanding, and  _just the perfect size,_ Sherlock thinks off handedly, right between his cheeks. John give him barely a second before he pushes in, one smooth, easy glide. It burns, just a bit, because they didn’t really give themselves much time and John’s only prepared him for a minute or two, but it feels absolutely  _delicious,_ and all Sherlock wants is  _more_ of it.

“Fuck,” John groans at his ear, his hand splayed against Sherlock’s stomach. “So-so fucking tight.”

Sherlock shifts restlessly against him, trying to push back, get more inside of him. John pulls him backward until Sherlock is roughly bent into a ninety degree angle, head bowed and palms pressed against the wall for support.

“Please,” he begs, and John slides in further, until he’s buried all the way. John grabs his hips for leverage and then pushes in again. He gives Sherlock a few seconds to acclimatise himself before he sets a rough, quick pace. Usually John takes it slow before he picks up speed, but he seems to be uncaring of finesse at this point.

Each thrust shoves Sherlock back and forth against the floor, he stumbles once or twice but John catches him around the waist and angles his body so he shove himself deeper.

“God, John-perfect- no, god, fuck me harder-“

John growls, swipes his overgrown hair away from his forehead and pulls it back in his fist. Sherlock’s head is pulled up now, he fixes his gaze on the painting on the wall to ground himself. Otherwise he feels like he’ll burn into ashes.

Sherlock’s words melt into meaningless nonsense at this point. Loud, meaningless nonsense.

“Sherlock, babe, quiet-“ John reminds him raggedly, his cock hits his prostate with each shove.

Sherlock moans in response.

“oh god,” John murmurs, bending forward so he’s pressed against Sherlock’s back. His teeth find the taunt muscles in his neck, bites down to suppress  his own groan.

“Harder, John, please—“ Sherlock

pleads with him, and then, inexplicably- John releases his hair to press a hand against his mouth. Sherlock’s eyes widen, his moans now muffled against John’s skin. His hand twists against his mouth in an effort to keep fucking him and keep him quiet. Sherlock feels his orgasm coiling in his gut.

“Fuck,” he says, or tries to say, and comes all over Ms Hudson’s floor.

Climax wrenched out of him, John’s hand drops from his mouth and resumes its place at his hip, pushing him up and against his cock. Sherlock pants, barely able to stand anymore, legs trembling as John continues to push into his spent body.

Once, twice- and he groans, head falling between his shoulder blades, fingers digging deep. Presses Sherlock against himself and ejaculates right inside him. Sherlock sighs with relief.

They’re both breathing hard. John’s hand curls lightly around his throat, he noses along the edge of his jaw. He slips out of him wetly, Sherlock wincing at the residual burn.

They catch their breath for a few moments, Sherlock’s face still resting against the wall. Sweat drips down his temple.

“That was...effective,” he finally chokes out.

John lightly smacks his arse. “Jesus, you’re like a porn star-  _fuck me harder-“_ the rest of the sentence dissolves into a chuckle, and then a kiss, right at the back of Sherlock’s neck.

***

Ms Hudson steps inside the building barely three seconds after they’ve rearranged their clothes and Sherlock has donned his trousers. They’re leaning against the wall, catching their breath and the door clicks open and Ms Hudson blinks at her tenants. She raises her eyebrows, surveys the foyer- the vase has shifted a bit from its usual position.

She looks back at them, vaguely disappointed. “A whole flat to yourselves, and you two decide to have a go here,” she shakes her head.

Sherlock clears his throat pointedly, smoothening down his shirt. It’s untucked and a bit damp at the bottom from the semen. His scarf is tucked inside his pocket, sacrificed to cleaning up the foyer. He’ll have to dry clean it.

“We- uh. We cleaned up after ourselves,” John assures her. Neither of them can quite meet her eye. “Can I take your bags?”

“Yes, rather,” Ms Hudson huffs, pushing her heavy grocery bags into John’s chest with a great deal of unnecessary force. Sherlock thinks she’s being unfair. Ms Hudson had sex in the back of a cab once. He decides against reminding her of it, she’d told her when she was under the influence of her herbal soothers.

She leaves them both there, bustling towards her flat, mumbling grumpily under her breath. John struggles a bit with the bags.

“Months of military training,” Sherlock laments. “And you can barely carry an old lady’s bags.”

“Maybe we should tell her we know she smokes pot with Ms. Turner every Tuesday?”

“Absolutely not, she’ll stop lending me some,” Sherlock points out, and John gapes at him. Before he can reply with something tiresome, Sherlock pecks him on the cheek and rushes up the steps.

“How come you never told me?” he shouts after him.

“I don’t have enough for all three of you,” Ms Hudson interrupts. Neither of them had noticed her stepping back into the foyer to fix the flowers. She rearranges the set quickly, taking out three wilting roses. John stares at her.

“John, please take those inside, dear,” she reminds him mildly.

***

The gagging. The gagging.  _The gagging._

Sherlock didn’t imagine he would have such a visceral reaction to John’s hand clamping over his mouth. He’d came almost immediately.

They don’t talk about it. Perhaps because there’s nothing to talk  _about._ Doubtful John is devoting so many of his brain cells to thinking about this as Sherlock is. John goes about being  _normal,_ as though Sherlock isn’t constantly wondering how on earth he could go about asking John if they could do that again, please. For science, of course. As an experiment.

He knows John likes it. That much is positively certain. John likes doing things like that- pinning Sherlock against various surfaces, pulling his hair until he’s gasping, coming on his face. John Watson, for all of his gentlemanly ethics and jumpers, is decidedly non- gentlemanly in bed.

They have sex four times after that, and John very pointedly keeps his hands away from Sherlock’s mouth. Not even to shove them between his lips so Sherlock can suck his fingers, which both of them know Sherlock likes. Does John even notice he’s doing that?

“Do we have any milk?” John asks, and Sherlock snaps out of it. He blinks at John, who is currently hovering in front of the fridge, squinting disapprovingly at its contents.

“No,” Sherlock replies, fingers steepling under his chin. He was supposed to have been conducting an experiment on the human blood he’d flinched from the morgue. It’s been steadily heating over the Bunsen burner, if Sherlock doesn’t take it off the experiment will be rendered useless.

“Right, well, suppose I’ll have to get some,” John decides, shutting the fridge.

“You’re going to visit Bill Murray on the way back. Pub. You won’t be back before seven.” Such an unassuming man, John Watson, Sherlock muses. It really is like flipping a switch. One moment he’ll be humming some awful pop music tune under his breath and making tea, the other moment he’ll be shoving Sherlock against a wall and fucking him from behind. Sherlock can feel the back of his neck heat up uncomfortably.

“Yep,” John nodded, unfazed by Sherlock’s deductions. “Was just going to tell you.” True enough.

“Please bring back biscuits,” Sherlock reminds him, as John bends down to kiss him. One hand rests against the side of his neck, presses just slightly against his carotid artery. If John pressed any harder Sherlock’s air supply would be compromised.

“Will do,” John says against his mouth, and sweeps out of the flat.

Immediately Sherlock pushes away from the kitchen table and makes his way to their bedroom, where he finds John’s computer lying on his desk. Switches it on, types in the password. John keeps changing them every week, as though that will prevent Sherlock from cracking it again.  John is predictable in the way he takes his tea, or which colour toothbrush he would prefer, his predictability folded into the military neat corners of the bed. He makes it every morning, as soon as Sherlock wakes up.

But John is still somehow a force of nature, sweeping Sherlock off his feet in the most unforseen of moments, taking him by surprise when Sherlock least expects it.

He tries not to think about how the bed will look when John leaves. Sherlock can’t be arsed to make the bed on most days. And when he does, it doesn’t look as orderly as when John does it. Sherlock likes the neatness of it; it reminds him that he isn’t alone, that John had been there, slept next to him the previous night, and when he’d woken up it had been to John’s front plastered against his body, nose against his neck, hands resting protectively at his waist.

When John will be gone again, Sherlock will be sleeping alone.

He sighs, turning his attention away from the bed and to more important things: he’s not sure exactly what he’s looking for. The internet, according to Sherlock, has always been a breeding ground for idiocy and irrelevant unless he needs to hack into Mycroft’s office or a suspect’s social media account.

  
Nevertheless, he types a word into the Google search box, waits for a second until his screen is flooded with alarming pictures.

All he’d typed in was  _gag_ , and scientifically, he should be looking at something completely different, but Sherlock is instead confronted with huge eyes, hair pulled back, mouths stretched wide around large balls of silicone.

Instead of switching off the computer and fleeing, as he feels he should be doing, he takes a closer look. After all, this is for science. Most of the images depict women, lips closed around the curved edges of a round object, fastened around their jaws with the help of several black straps.

Sherlock swallows. It’s not like he’s a complete stranger to these practises. A nuanced idea of sexuality is necessary for his line of work. So many crimes are committed in pursuit of sex, motivated by sex, resulting in sex, even. Despite that, Sherlock finds his hairline growing damp with sweat. Granted, Sherlock’s sex life has centered around John since he lost his virginity at sixteen; and it’s always been fulfilling...but they’ve never quite broached...this topic.

Perhaps John would like this. Prefer it even. It’s simply an extension of gagging Sherlock, using an external device instead of his own hands. After a few moments of panic, Sherlock calms down and begins to see the appeal of it. If he’d orgasmed so effectively with simply John covering his mouth, how fantastic would the sex be if Sherlock was gagged from the very start?

His eye catches the tag at the top of the page for related searches:  _BDSM ,_ it reads. Sherlock blinks thoughtfully. Again, he is not a complete novice in this area. He knows the basics; whips and chains and all of that nonsense. Which is fine, people engage in sexual activities of their own consent and Sherlock couldn’t be less bothered. But a bit of that changes when he….when he thinks about him and John doing all of that. Changes a great deal. He runs his fingers over his own mouth, wondering how it would feel to be unable to say anything, completely at John’s mercy.

He stares at an image, eyes growing wide. Most of them alarm him; latex and leather and  _god what is that_? But there’s another one- an artfully edited, black and white picture of a man- youngish, mid twenties- on his knees. It’s a side profile, so he can’t see his face; but his head is tilted upward, shadows nestled under the sharp edge of his jaw. Someone stands in front of him; another man, holding out what looks like a riding crop. It’s poised right at his cheek, as if the man is about to lift it up and smack him in the face with it.

Sherlock swallows. Not bad. Another one- a woman on her knees again, mouth stretched wide around- what is it called? A ball gag?- hands bent behind her. tied up, presumably. She looks incandescent with happiness. Someone stands behind her, pulling her hair back.

Finding it very difficult to breathe all of a sudden, Sherlock hurriedly shuts down the page and deletes his browser history.

Of course, he regrets it immediately afterwards. There was so much data left to gather. There’s no point conducting an experiment half arsed. But his head is already flooded with images of...whips, and riding crops...and that  _ball gag,_ for God’s sake, Sherlock decides to let it be for a while.

Instead, he heads up to the spare room upstairs where he keeps his chemistry equipment and rummages about for a while, looking for-  _aha!_ He holds up several coils of nylon rope which he’d decided to stock up on the last time a kidnapper had descended upon 221B. The only other thing he needs is a suitable piece of cloth which would serve its purpose. He decides on one of John’s old ties, he has to head back to their bedroom and disturb his carefully made sock index. He takes another useless twenty minutes setting it right again. Tedious.

Of course, Sherlock has never really used ropes on  _himself._  Been tied up quite a few times- that awful day with Moriarty, for example. He shudders. But it had always been in a non sexual context. He eyes the rope wearily. He could get out of it, no problem. Given enough time and motivation.

The living room offers more space so he decides to do it there. Uses the tie first- wraps it around his mouth and knots it at the back. It feels...odd. Especially when Sherlock knows he’s not actually in a hostage situation. It smells faintly of John’s preferred brand of detergent; fresh and clean with a vague scent of cologne. He uses the ropes afterwards, it’s difficult to bind yourself but somehow he manages. It’s not very tightly done either- five minutes of focused efforts and Sherlock could slip out of it.

Still.

He flexes his fingers experimentally. The rope digs into his skin. Seats himself on the floor, back against the coffee table, tries to speak through the gag. Just muffled words, barely make any sense.

“Please shag me on this coffee table,” he tries to say. All that comes out is  _mumphmumphmumph._

***

Sherlock doesn’t realise how long he stays like that on the floor. He realises that it’s the perfect position to sift through his MInd Palace and find anything worth deleting and do the needful. Sensory deprivation is a field he wishes he had more data on, there are uses for it expanding beyond sexual experimentation.

By the time the door clicks open, he notices the flat’s gone dark and he hadn’t thought of switching on the lights. Ms Hudson must have come it at some point of time and lit the fire for them. Probably why his feet are pleasantly warm though Sherlock has always had poor blood circulation.

“Is this-”

Sherlock’s gaze lifts upwards, where John is standing in front of him, one hand resting on his armchair for support. He smells strongly of scotch. John is squinting at him, evidently drunk. Sherlock rolls his eyes. Trust John to meet his army mates and squander an evening by consuming completely unnecessary amounts of alcohol, when he could have been home, tying on the gag himself. Sherlock flushes. Or not.

He clears his throat, makes a valiant attempt to finish his sentence, “Is this a kidnap.”

Sherlock shoots him what he hopes is a vaguely disappointed look, and shakes his head.

John nods slowly, eyes travelling down the length of Sherlock’s body. Eyebrows raised. His gaze travels back upwards, rests on Sherlock’s mouth. He swallows skittishly.

Ah.

  
Arousal.

“Then why-” John makes a vague gesture with one hand. “Experiment?”

Sherlock nods. And then, because John evidently can’t be trusted to make any great leaps of judgement himself, holds out his interlocked wrists. They’re starting to hurt now. John, still standing, reaches out a hand and cups the underside of one wrist, thumb sweeping over his knuckles. “You want me to- uh, untie you?”

Sherlock nods again, wiggles his fingers. “I could, take the- er…” John opens and closes his mouth several times, eyes never wavering from his lips. “That’s my tie,” he adds at the end.

Sherlock stares at him, waiting for realisation to dawn. Anything. Christ, if their positions had been reversed Sherlock would have deduced the entire thing by now. John sighs, as though Sherlock’s actions are beyond comprehension, and kneels down in front of him. Their knees brush. John places Sherlock’s hands in his lap, and with careful determination, unties the ropes. His tongue sticks out between his teeth like it does when he’s concentrating. His eyes are still dark, does he know that? His hair has grown a bit in the past few months. John will have to have it trimmed before he gets back.

“There,” he says quietly, dropping the untangled mess of rope next to him. His fingers are still locked around Sherlock’s wrists, eyes travelling over the rope burns, fingers pressing just a bit into the indents.

Sherlock makes a muffled noise and John looks up, eyes hooded. The firelight makes his face look darker than usual, shadows nestle in the hollows of his eyes. Very slowly, John reaches behind his head and unties the strip of cloth, and it falls down into Sherlock’s lap.

“Untied and ungagged,” John announces, and his hand curves over the back of his neck.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hums, and leaning into his touch. “How drunk are you?”

John smiles lazily. “Pretty….drunk,” he answers, and tugs Sherlock towards him. Obligingly, Sherlock climbs into his lap, wraps his arms around his neck, and bends down to kiss him. John kisses him back almost immediately, fingers threading into the hair at the base of his skull and pulling. Sherlock gasps against his mouth and John slips in his tongue. He tastes like scotch, too. Sherlock shifts in his lap so that his cock is pressed right against John’s crotch.

“Good look on you,” John says raggedly, lips grazing over the edge of Sherlock’s jaw.

  
“What is?” Sherlock tilts his head back so John can bestow more attention on his neck.

“Tied...up,” John murmurs. “Like it.”

“You like me tied up?” Sherlock swallows, John reaches weakly for his bottom. Drunkenness makes him sluggish.

  
“Hmmm,” John says, and rests his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. Two seconds later he starts to fall sideways so Sherlock disentangles himself from him and lays him more gently down the floor. Pulls down the comforter from the sofa and throws it over both of them. John had never been light anyway, and now he’s more muscle than anything else. He’s not even going to try to carry him to their bedroom.

Still lying in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep in, he snores loudly.

Sherlock fits himself against his front, throws John’s arm over his waist and settles in. John is still half hard against his backside, his own erection softening already. John’s breath, warm and smelling of alcohol, brushes the hair at his ear.

The rope and the tie lie discarded in front of the fireplace, Sherlock stretches out a leg and shoves them over his armchair.

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more PORN! 
> 
> chapter title narrowly avoided being In Which Sherlock and John Beat Around The Bush a Lot Before They Finally Frick-Frack

 

 

John wakes up with an awful headache, and a mouth that is as dry as a bone. God, those drinks had been a terrible idea- he must be getting old if his tolerance is starting to slip.

 

His back is sore too, but the next second he realises why- he’s on the bloody _floor,_ right next to the fireplace, and the fire’s gone out which means- yep, he wriggles his toes and they’re quite cold. Had he passed out last night? Sherlock must have thrown a blanket over him at some point of time, and there’s a pillow under his head-

 

 _Sherlock_.

 

Suddenly John shoots up from the floor, sitting straight- and of course that sudden movement makes the world spin for a few seconds. Then he narrows his eyes, looks towards the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock is nowhere to be seen.

 

They definitely did not have sex last night, because John is fully clothed and the skull hasn’t moved from its regular position which means the lube they stash under it for living-room-sex hasn’t been used. Which means, John deduces- that his weird erotic dream last night hadn’t really been a dream, and Sherlock actually _had_ been tied up and gagged and John _had_ gotten an erection at the sight of that- and yes, perhaps that had somehow melted into a dream because at some point of time he distinctly remembers taking off Sherlock’s clothes and flipping him over while his arms were still tied behind his back, but that _didn’t happen,_ so-

 

“Tea?”

 

John jumps, nearly knocking over the mug of tea hovering in front of his face. He turns around to see Sherlock standing on the coffee table, looking down at him, lips pulled up in an amused tilt.

 

“Uh,” John says, and takes the mug out of his hands. “Didn’t see you there.”

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock jumps off the table and over John’s legs and moves towards the kitchen, flouncing and prancing about as though John isn’t having the most confused time of his _life._ “Do you feel up for some breakfast? Pity we’re out of scotch, I assume you would have preferred that.” He’s actually opening the fridge and extracting _actual food._

 

Sherlock is _humming._

 

It sounds like Vivaldi or something, whatever he plays on his violin- and the wanker just looks so devastatingly happy that John would have ran over to the kitchen and pushed him against the fridge if he hadn’t been extremely annoyed at him, or, at least able to fathom getting out of the blanket.

 

John doesn’t even know _why_ he’s annoyed at Sherlock, or why he has a sudden urge to pull that sash out of his dressing gown and use it to-

 

_Jesus._

 

John exhales roughly, chugs down the scalding tea. It momentarily gets rid of the image that is rapidly beginning to make a home inside his brain.

 

***

 

John had never imagined their sex life to be boring. They’re not teenagers anymore, sure, but they’re not even thirty, it’s not as though they’re lacking in energy or stamina. They’re creative enough- wasn’t it just last week that Sherlock had sucked him off while they were at a stake out? They can still be unpredictable, still surprise each other.

 

But suddenly all John can think of is Sherlock on his knees, restrained and unable to speak, and it’s unspeakably sexy and yet John can’t himagine Sherlock consenting to any of that so he has to get rid of the fantasy immediately. But it’s hard, especially when Sherlock is being especially mouthy and stroppy and John imagines how easy it would be to just get him to _shut up._ Hand curled over his pink mouth, push him against a wall with the other one- reach between his legs-

 

Of course, he’d played with the idea of gagging Sherlock before- especially since the man is so loud everyone in London within a five kilometre radius would know he’s getting his brains fucked out. Not to mention Ms. Hudson, who probably knows each of Sherlock’s varied sexual noises. But the more John thinks about it, the less he thinks it’s something that he _should_ do, and more of something that he _wants_ to. He likes topping Sherlock, likes clamping his hands over his head and keeping him in place and pushing him to his knees and watching his eyes go wide and cheeks flush when John shoves himself inside his mouth-

 

He fucking _loves_ it when he tells Sherlock what to do in bed and Sherlock, inexplicably, _obeys._

 

He’s not really aware where it comes from, probably some deep, primal urge inside of him to stamp his claim all over Sherlock, have everyone know he’s taken and _his_ and if anyone even tried to to touch him, John would break their arm. He knows how to now, anyway. He could do it, if he wanted. He could do it while naming each bone.

 

He really shouldn’t be thinking about this when they’re supposed to be talking to clients. His notepad lay forgotten in his hand, the pen must have fallen down somewhere on the carpet.

 

Sherlock notices. He turns to look up at John where he’s perched on the arm of the chair, and raises an eyebrow, as though asking where John had disappeared to.

 

“Sorry, what?” he asks lamely.

 

Sherlock’s mouth twitches, his eyes make a quick, deliberate path down the length of his body, right from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, and whatever he’s seen seems to satisfy him greatly. “Nothing,” he says quietly. “Did you write down all of that?”

 

The client looks between the two of them, clearly annoyed that Sherlock isn’t giving him undivided attention. John glances at him and back to Sherlock and lies smoothly, “Yeah, of course.” Sherlock grins at him, the kind of grin that usually comes before sex, when Sherlock is poised over him with his hair falling into his eyes and his arms effectively caging John from either side, looking young and adorable and inexplicably sexy. John clears his throat and turns his face towards the client, with what he hopes is an apologetic smile. “Sorry, you were saying?”

 

***

Sherlock definitely knows what he’s doing then. The embarrassing thought comes to him a few nights later when Sherlock is curled up against him, (the duvet barely covering his naked body) that the entire thing- the ropes and the tie- had all been deliberate. Sherlock was somehow trying to get John to admit something, and this was his way of going about it. Making John so uncomfortable that he had no other option but to spit it out in a shameful declaration. _Yes, Sherlock, since the sex we’re having is not enough, I really would like to tie your arms behind you and stuff a gag in your mouth._ The only problem was that he wasn’t entire sure what Sherlock’s views on the matter were, and as usual, Sherlock was never going to be straightforward about it.

 

He can almost imagine the disdain with which Sherlock would hold up a gag or something, the downward turn of his mouth, the scrunched up nose. “What is this, John. I’m not allowing you to put this on my person. At all. Ever.”

 

John sighs, turning over on his side so he’s facing Sherlock. His hair stands up on all ends, made frizzy and tangled from sleep. Pale pink lips parted slightly, huffing warm breath against his mouth. John experimentally brushes a finger against a full bottom lip. Imagines them stretched around something else, black straps really would look appealing against his pale, flawless skin. John swallows, his cock giving an interested twitch as the image forms in his head. He pushes it down, or attempt to, at least, because it rapidly forms again, like some sort of ten headed Greek monster.

 

Sherlock must somehow feel the intensity of his gaze, because he makes a little sound and opens his eyes. Half lidded and bleary from sleep but still breathtakingly beautiful. Sherlock blinks slowly, reaches forward with one long fingered hand and runs it up John’s stomach and rests on his chest, right over his heart.

  
“Hi,” he whispers.

 

John smiles, takes his hand and presses a kiss to his palm. “Hey. Go back to sleep.”

 

“Mmmm,” Sherlock agrees, and snuggles further against him. Within seconds his breathing evens out and he’s fast asleep again.

 

***

 

Sherlock had dropped it within a week or so, upon realising that even if John was thinking about it, he couldn’t be trusted to _make a move._ The obvious solution would  be for Sherlock to do something about it instead, but surprisingly Sherlock found himself growing unsure and insecure about the whole thing and deciding, quite conclusively, that John might find Sherlock’s suggestions a bit too extreme or demanding and his reaction would manifest in being achingly gentle or considerate and this would annoy Sherlock a great deal.

 

In fact, John seems to have taken to doing exactly the _opposite_ of what Sherlock was attempting to make him do. He keeps his fingers and hands away from Sherlock’s mouth when they have sex- not even to allow Sherlock to suck on them, even though they’ve established how much Sherlock enjoys _that._ Instead, John keeps Sherlock on his back and laces their fingers together and it’s all very pleasant, it’s not what Sherlock _wants,_ and the worst part is John doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

He’d even assumed that John had forgotten about the whole thing, even after all the trouble Sherlock had gone to, John must have been too drunk to commit the event to memory. Sherlock scowls to himself where he’s bent over his microscope. He can barely concentrate on what he’s looking at, what with how annoyed he is at John.

 

“Do you remember Paul and Linda?” he suddenly asks. Sherlock, still scowling, looks up. John is standing across from him, leaning over the edge of the dining table, showing him his mobile screen where a happy couple smiles at him. The woman is dark haired, plump, the man has a rugged face which he remembers vaguely.

 

“Yes, one of your army mates,” Sherlock answers, putting down his pipette. He leans back against his chair, crossing his arms. “What about it?”

 

“They’re getting engaged,” John says, slipping the phone back in his pocket and straightening up. “Do you think you’d like to go to party?” John says it casually. Almost too casually. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

 

“I’ve never spoken to either of them,” he comments, pulling off the goggles he’s pushed back against his hair and placing them delicately on the table. He sees John’s eyes slide from his hair, meet his gaze, and then rest for the fraction of a second too long on his mouth. Sherlock instinctively licks his lips.

 

John clears his throat. “Actually, you have, you wanker. You’ve met them thrice. Paul came here last month, remember?” Sherlock makes a disbelieving face but John continues. “Anyway, it’s very formal and posh, so you’ll have to wear a tie.”

 

The last part too, is delivered too casually to actually be casual. John, unlike him, is not a very good actor. Makes questioning criminals _very_ difficult. John always gets angry when they threaten Sherlock and ends up punching them in the face.

 

“i don’t wear ties. You know that.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and dips his head over the microscope, looking at the spores again. Seemingly ending the conversation. He waits for a few seconds.

 

He’s about to lift his head to complain more at John when he’s already behind him, hands on his shoulders, pulling him back up, right against his chest. He can feel him ducking his head behind him to say quietly in his ear. “That’s because you don’t know how to wear them. I tied them for you every day at school, remember?”

 

Sherlock is about to protest hotly but then there’s a scrap of silk being wrapped around his throat, just tight enough to be slightly uncomfortable as it strains against his Adam’s apple.

 

He looks down at himself, and- _oh._ It’s John’s tie. The blue one. The one he’d tied on himself.

 

“John-”

 

“The windsor knot is actually quite easy,” he tells him, almost flippantly, as he slips the scarf right off his skin. And then suddenly he’s gripping the chair and turning him around, spinning him until he’s facing John. Sherlock swallows, looks up at John, who’s staring down at him with that same predatory glint in his eyes.

 

He’s enjoying this. Of course. Sherlock should have known. He’s underestimated him, again. John surprises him _each_ time.

 

“I can wear a tie,” he asserts. It sounds shaky to his own ears. John raises one sandy eyebrow, loops the tie around his neck from the back. The ends hang down his chest. Sherlock suddenly feels oddly exposed without his dressing gown. His blue t-shirt has been overwashed so many times it’s paper thin and grey. He can,  imagine that it barely leaves anything to the imagination.

 

“I’m sure you could do a lot of things, if you were inclined to do them,” John says easily, stepping into Sherlock’s personal space, knocking his knees apart so he can stand between them. He slips a hand behind his neck, slides it up to his hair and weaves it into his hair lightly, tugs his curls back with a brusque instruction of “Look up.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t think it even was an instruction, considering John made him do it anyway. John could have pulled him out of the chair and pushed him to his knees and Sherlock would do it without even being ordered to.

 

“You know,” he continues lightly, holding on end of the tie and using the other hand to curl lightly around the side of his neck. His thumb presses right against the base of his throat, causing a slight blockage to his airway. Sherlock tries to overcome it by swallowing. It doesn’t help. All it does is cause John’s gaze to darken as it follows the slow movement of the muscles in his neck. “You would look good in a tie.”

 

He slides the hand down, holds the other end and makes a cross, overlaying the ends over the other and then pulling so that it tightens against his throat.  


“Only a tie?” Sherlock jokes. His voice sounds breathless to his own ears; anticipatory. Anticipating what, though, exactly?

 

John’s answering smile is wolfish as he pulls the tie tighter. Sherlock takes a breath with mild difficulty. “Only a tie sounds like an excellent idea, babe.”

 

Sherlock hands reach behind himself to grip the base of his chair. It leaves the front of him completely open; bare, almost. Sometimes John looks at him and sees _must protect,_ sees _brilliant,_ sees _breakbale,_ but now all Sherlock wants John to see is _mine._ John is mistaken when he believes Sherlock is incapable of discipline; it’s all a matter of who he would rather obey and what for. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered about where the clean socks go or whether John’s jumpers are off limits for experimenting; but _oh,_ if John ordered him to his knees Sherlock would do it in a heartbeat.

 

“Do you think this is four inches?” John asks off handedly, eyes burning bright and dark at the same time, indicating the distance between the ends of the tie. It’s much more than that, going by the way it’s pressing against his throat. Sherlock nods. John eyes go impossibly darker, and when he ties the rest of the material around his neck he takes liberties; a brush of a finger there, a scrape of a knuckle there-dexterous, tanned fingers curving and pushing against one of the vulnerable parts of his body. John could wrap all five fingers around his throat and push him down towards his cock; he could, if he wanted. He doesn’t though- and that, that makes Sherlock _want._

 

Suddenly he doesn’t give a shit whether John finishes his experiment or not, he’s grabbing at John’s face and pulling him towards himself, down against his mouth- John grabs the front of the tie and _pulls_ Sherlock up instead, knocking the chair over and pushing Sherlock against the dining table.

  
“You’re being terribly unfair,” Sherlock tells him petulantly, voice hitching when John pins him to the table with his hips and latches his lips to a spot on his neck.

 

“I learnt from the best,” he replies raggedly, fingers snaking into his hair and tugging. Sherlock gasps, tips his head to the ceiling and lets John suck a bruise against his throat, tie hanging limply against his chest.

 

Sherlock reaches forward to wrap his arms around John’s shoulders but John tightens his grip in Sherlock’s hair, enough to border right on the edge of pain, and breathes out, “Hands down, right on the table where I can see them.”

 

Sherlock swallows, but obeys. Of course. He’s already hard and straining against his pyjamas, leaking a wet spot all over the front. He can feel John’s erection against his thigh where it’s trapped in his jeans, and he pitches his hips forward, aching for the friction, relief, _anything._ “Sherlock, you’re awful at taking orders, aren’t you? Wouldn’t last a day in Afghanistan. Stay still.”

 

And of course that annoys Sherlock, and of course John _knows_ that, because Sherlock wants John to think he is _spectacular_ at taking orders. He breathes out shakily, lips buzzing from the hard, possessive press of John’s mouth and pushes back against the table, keeping as little distance between them as possible. His neck stings from John’s teeth. John smiles crookedly, kisses him against his cheekbone, and lifts his t-shirt upward.

 

“Have I told you that you look like a tart when you wear this? Better to just not wear anything at all,” he comments, thumbs rubbing over his nipples. Goosebumps erupt all over his skin, makes the fine hair on his chest and stomach stand to attention. Sherlock moans when John tweaks one, his cock twitches.

 

“You’re _awful,_ ” he complains some more, legs somehow spreading of their own accord.

 

“That’s no way to speak to your boyfriend,” John shakes his head in mock seriousness, one hand snaking down to the apex of his thighs, cupping his cock. Sherlock’s hips immediately thrust forward, his head tips back even further and his fingers scrabble at the wood.

 

It’s _brilliant._

 

“Remember what I said,” John warns him, “About staying still. And keeping quiet.” And then he’s sliding down to his knees, slipping Sherlock pyjamas off his waist and curling his hands possessively around his hips. It takes all of Sherlock’s willpower not to raise his hand and just push John’s mouth towards himself. Instead John takes him in agonisingly slowly, drawing out begging whimpers and moans from Sherlock’s mouth before he’s all the way inside. Sherlock can do nothing else but let John suck him to orgasm, one finger slick with pre come slipping inside his arse. He groans, knees trembling, biting his lips till they feel swollen and sensitive. John’s tongue swirls around the tip, moves up and down his shaft, adding just the tiniest edge of his teeth to make Sherlock mewl like a cat and cant his hips forward so roughly that he can hear the sound of John choking around him. He doesn’t risk looking down though; as soon as he sees that he’ll come.

 

Not that it takes him very long though; John’s finger finally brushes against his prostate and a few strokes along with the wet heat of his mouth lead to Sherlock gasping out his name and ejaculating right down John’s throat.

 

John holds him through it, swallowing down every last bit, until he’s standing up and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, letting Sherlock’s trembling form plaster itself to John. He kisses him then, slowly and softly,  and Sherlock tastes himself on John’s tongue. His chest rises and falls rapidly with the aftermath of the orgasm, and John rubs his hands soothingly down his sides, as if calming a spooked horse.

 

“un-unfair,” Sherlock whispers. John’s mouth curves into a smile and he brushes a kiss against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock can feel his pyjamas being pulled up, and then a pair of strong arms lock themselves under his arse and push him up and on top of the table. John’s palms fall to either side of his lap, and he looks at Sherlock, the table bringing them to equal heights. His hair is mussed, falling all over his forehead and his eyes are bright. Deployment-John always has slightly longer hair, just a bit more stubble prickling over his chin and upper lip. Sherlock adores it, wonders how it would feel like to rub his cheek against a full grown beard.

 

“I think what I just did was very, very fair,” John counters, slipping one finger underneath the tie, just against his pulse point. It skitters. It’s tied loosely around his neck, half open and half tied, left at its incipient stage because Sherlock got greedy.

 

Sherlock curls a hand around John’s neck, brings him closer so that their foreheads rest against each other. He closes his eyes and breathes. It was meant to be just that; a moment of grounding, of reminding himself that John was here, warm and breathing and steady. Before long his legs come to wrap around John’s waist and his arms snake around his shoulders and he’s twined himself around John like some sort of cephalopod.

John never questions him when Sherlock does these kinds of things; he is used to Sherlock displaying random spurts of intense, needy affection. Tiny moments of vulnerability, especially after sex, when Sherlock realises how _limited_ their time always is. He tucks his head into the crook of John’s neck, where it’s damp from sweat and hot. He can feel John’s cock, half hard and a little damp against his jeans, and he feels a little guilty about just standing there and taking what John had offered. It should have been the other way around. That’s what Sherlock had wanted, anyway.

 

He knows John will be tiresome if he tries to reach a hand between them and touch him; will insist that Sherlock make it up to him, later. Sherlock secretly decides that he will. If John insists on stretching the whole thing out and making Sherlock _beg,_ Sherlock will beg. It seems to be the only way to get John to do what he wants. John almost seems to _enjoy_ being manipulated, he thinks indulgently. Or...is he the one being manipulated?

 

It’s the bloody ball gag, he decides. Manipulating all of them.

 

“I love you,” he murmurs against John’s neck.

 

“Love you too,” John answers. “Does this mean you’ll come to the engagement party?”

 

Sherlock makes an enormous noise of disgust and curls his toes where they’re nicely settles against John’s arse. “Don’t be tedious,” he sniffs, and nips at his ear. Somewhere downstairs he can hear the distant sound of Ms. Hudson’s hoover. The muted honking of cars outside, the low rumble of the television turned on low, the steady thump of John’s heartbeat against his chest.

 

“I’d like to take you out and show you off,” John appeals. Sherlock has to put in a great deal of effort to not visibly preen.

 

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, which they both knows is a yes, albeit a very, very reluctant one. The only thing that motivates Sherlock is the possibility of seeing John in his suit and tie- possibly this one, after its been washed and ironed and doesn’t look so very mangled- and perhaps convincing him to fuck Sherlock in some dark, secret corner. Preferably gagged, considering all the _people_ who will be there, who might even _hear_ Sherlock! God forbid anyone hears John’s Watson’s boyfriend _orgasm._

 

“Good man,” John teases him, and disentangles from him slowly. “Dinner?”

  
Sherlock grins. “Starving.”

 

***

As it turns out, neither of them is able to make it to the engagement party because they get caught up in a three-day stakeout. Sherlock promises that he’ll catch the perp by then but obviously they _don’t_ , because it’s already past seven and they’re still stuck in the warehouse overlooking the perp’s flat waiting for him to come home.

And because Sherlock is mostly in hands-off mode during stakeouts, John has to control himself in ways he barely thought imaginable. Sherlock even made a list which included _no hair stroking during stakeouts_ and taped it to the fridge after that one time when they were both in university and John had wanked Sherlock off out of boredom and they’d both missed the target- and which had started- inexplicably- with John’s hand in Sherlock’s hair.

 

When the thirty eight hour stake out was over, Sherlock came home and collapsed into their bed. John took care of mundane things like taking off his shoes and socks, changing him into his pyjamas and tucking in the duvet around him. Post-Case Slumber usually lasted for 12-18 hours, depending on the severity and intensity of the case. Considering this one was quite a knockout, Sherlock slept like the dead for an entire day, woke up in the middle to take a piss and demand John make him some tea- and then promptly fell asleep again before he could drink said tea.

 

John is just as tired as he is and it takes a few days for both of them to find their equilibrium again. He wakes up from an indulgent afternoon nap to see Sherlock stretched out on his arm chair, legs and head falling over the edge on either side. Pale ankles crossed at his foot, he holds up his laptop precariously on his stomach, scanning the screen with an adorable frown between his brows.

 

The bruise on his cheekbone had darkened afterwards (the perp had only gotten one swing in before John had tackled him to the ground) and was now just beginning to lighten a bit at the edges. John has to smother the sudden tide of protective, righteous tenderness that rises in his chest at the sight.

 

He stretches instead, toes smashing up against the arm of the sofa as he raises his arms over his head. The sofa is just the right size for him, leaving a bit of room at the bottom. Unlike Sherlock, who’s always just a little cramped. “Anything interesting?” he asks around a yawn.

 

Sherlock’s opalescent eyes flick over to him from the screen, soften at the sight of him. His shifts up a bit so that his back is supported against the corner of the chair, all the better to see John with. He shrugs. “Depends. Do emails from my parents count as important?” His dressing gown slips down one shoulder. Of course he’s not wearing a t shirt. Of _course._

 

John makes a face. Emails from Sherlock’s parents are always highly avoided in Baker Street. Not that they’re particularly awful, at least they’re not as awful as they _were,_ but Sherlock is always grumpy after even a telephone conversation with them. And they phone every _week._ Sherlock ignores them and always shoves his mobile into John’s face, as though _John_ is supposed to take care of it.

 

John sits up, cracks his neck from side to side and stretches his legs out on the coffeetable. “What are they saying?”

 

Sherlock squirms and makes a noise of great annoyance and slams his computer on the table before throwing an arm over his face and being his dramatic self.The dressing gown falls even further, almost falling off Sherlock’s frame, displaying his pale torso and chest. Jesus. John really needs to get it together. Just because he only has a few months doesn’t mean they should fuck _all the time._

 

“Birthday dinner,” Sherlock says in an angry mutter, bringing John back to earth. Rather rudely, in fact. He narrows his eyes.

 

“You’re not serious. Not after last year.”

 

Sherlock huffs in response. Last year had been...strained. Dinner with Sherlock’s parents was always a bad idea. They’d never _quite_ gotten over the fact that their son was gay, and moreover that he was dating _John._ Although they had warmed up to him a bit when they learnt he had enrolled in the RAMC. Still, both Sherlock and Mycroft would be there. Greg had politely declined, although John knows why. Their parents dont need to know that _both_ their sons are dating men.

 

***

 

The dinner is a disaster, as expected, but at least it didn’t end with Sherlock throwing potatoes at Mycroft’s face, (like last time) which is a win. It’s past eleven when desert has been cleared away, and Sherlock’s mother tells them to stay the night. John is about to reject her offer immediately but John grips him (hard) by his shoulder and says through a very suspicious grin, “Of _course,_ mother.” Mrs. Holmes is probably about to suggest that they both take separate bedrooms, but Sherlock pulls John upstairs before she can.

 

***

 

Sherlock’s room is the same as it was ten years ago. They rarely visit their childhood home; John’s mother had moved to London to be closer to John and she was obviously the more pleasant parent to be with. Still, the few times John has come back and stepped into Sherlock’s bedroom, it was always so achingly _familiar_ that it made his breath catch in his chest every time. Sherlock; young, with hair just a little longer than it was now, his bones and angles just starting to shift into his now-willowy and slender frame, stretched out beside him, pale, coltish legs tangled in the sheets. Sherlock standing next to the window and looking outside, playing the violin to wake John up. Sherlock holding him close against his chest and teaching him to dance. The sounds Sherlock made when John pushed inside him for the first time.

 

“You’re becoming maudlin,” the man says softly against his ear, arms wrapping around his waist from behind.

 

John laces their fingers together and brings their enjoined hands to his lips, kisses each knuckle.

 

“Hmm,” Sherlock rumbles behind him. “You were thinking about our first time.”

 

Lips close around the shell of his ear and suck. John’s eyes flutter closed and he pushed back against Sherlock. “Yep,” he agrees. “Right after you solved your first case. You were irresistible. And I’d wanted to have you like that for ages.”

 

Sherlock makes a soft noise of delight and continues to kiss down his chin, his neck, hands reaching downward towards his cock.

 

“We haven’t fucked in here for ten years, John,” he says against his skin. John hums, cock stirring in his jeans. He reaches out a hand to support himself against Sherlock’s desk. It’s been swiped clean except for an old notebook with Sherlock’s earlier compositions.

“Sherlock,” John warns. “We can’t shag here.”

 

Sherlock’s knuckles brush against his rapidly-forming erection. “Why not?” he asks, and of course Sherlock would ask something like that, and John would be expected to give a response, and it’ll be something boring and mundane like _Your parents are just downstairs,_ and Sherlock would scoff and John would feel ridiculous and /boring/ for denying Sherlock anything.

 

He starts to rub him through his jeans and John loses his train of thought. With great difficulty he swallows and says, “Because your parents will hear us,” and _there._

 

Of course.

 

He can feel Sherlock smirk against his temple. His fingers grow bolder, movements quicker. John bites his lip and cants forward into his pale hand. One hand cups his hip and pushes him back against his own erection. “Come now, John,” he says, his voice taking on a teasing tone. “You know I can be quiet.”

 

And the prat _knows_ that he’s lying, that John knows he’s lying, and he knows John wants nothing more right now than to shove Sherlock into his teenager-cot and fuck him till he’s gasping, with no danger of anyone hearing them because John will take care of that.

 

John grins to himself, because Sherlock really is a genius. He turns around and grabs Sherlock’s collar, has the satisfaction of seeing those silver eyes grow wide in surprise before he twists them around until he has Sherlock against his desk instead.

 

Immediately Sherlock’s cheeks flush and he goes pliant under John’s grip. John pushes him harder, spreads his legs so that their covered erections are pressed up against each other. Sherlock bites his lips and swallows.

 

“Alright, then,” John says smoothly. “What do you propose we do?”

 

Sherlock navy blue shirt is open at the collar, and its makes his pale skin look even paler, which makes the red flush creeping across his throat all the more appealing. Sherlock’s hands rest against his chest, trapped there between the cage of John’s arms.

 

“You’re a smart man,” he says evenly. “Most of the time.” John rolls his eyes, Sherlock’s crooked smile widens.

 

“You want me to gag you.”

 

John says it, and it’s a _relief,_ to finally have it out in the open. There’s no taking it back now, Sherlock will either say _yes_ or _no,_ but John will love him anyway, although he’s hoping Sherlock will say yes. Sherlock’s blush deepens, and there’s a barely perceptible shift of his hips. John raises a hand to brush a finger down Sherlock’s cheek, catch at his bottom lip and swipe it over his mouth. Sherlock nips it before he says, “More importantly, John,” and then he inclines his head and there’s that familiar spark to his eyes, the same familiar smugness rolling off his gorgeous frame in waves. “ _You_ want to gag _me_ . You’ve been thinking about it for weeks, there’s no need to lie. It’s practically been ten years, I know your ever evolving sexual proclivities like the back of my hand. I know what you’d like to do to me, I can see it in the way your pupils dilate when I have bruises on my skin- bruises you put there. The way you licked your lips and your gaze lingered a tad too long on my wrists when there were rope burns there. I know how much you like it when you have me subdued and willing to do whatever you want, and you like how much I _enjoy_ it. So tell me John, is that a yes or a no?”

 

Pale fingers grip his tie to pull him closer and kiss him, hot and wet and open mouthed. John groans, pulls at his bottom lip and grips his hips, pulls him closer until Sherlock’s cock is trapped against his. “You fucking genius,” he grins against his lips, and Sherlock grins back.

 

“I am, aren’t I?” he breathes out, and John can’t help it. He cradles Sherlock’s face in his hands and kisses him softly, lovingly. There never really is a moment of boredom with this man.

 

“So what do you want to use? This tie? It’s been unfairly sexualised a lot lately, I think.” Sherlock smiles and rolls the silk between his fingers, before taking the tip in his mouth and sucking it experimentally. John can hear the blood rushing in his ears.

 

“It’s done admirably well these past few weeks,” He admits, rubbing it against his cheek. “But I was thinking something more like- this.”

 

He reaches behind himself to open a drawer and fumbles a bit inside, before extracting…

 

A ball gag.

 

“You’re- you’re not serious,” John says weakly. His cock seems to thicken even more, if that’s even possible.

 

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nope,” he tells him, popping the ‘p’ sound. He holds up the black ball, twirls it in his fingers, black leather straps dancing. “I had to do a lot of research to find a good one. Large enough to actually keep me quiet, but not large enough to hurt. Soft leather straps to prevent chafing. Good quality silicone. The salesman at the shop tried to sell me a dildo too, but I told him my boyfriend’s cock was good enough for me.”

 

John doesn’t really register any of his words, because his eyes are fixed on the gag. It’s exactly how he had imagined it, and now he can’t think past anything but the need to push it inside Sherlock’s mouth _immediately_ and see how his lips look around it.

 

“Bed,” he says roughly. “Now.”

He steps back from Sherlock, whose smirk immediately vanishes, replaced by parted lips and wide eyes. “Is that a yes, then?” he asks.

 

“It’s a _Oh god, yes_ ,” John corrects him, and then inclines his head to the bed. “I asked you to do something.

 

Sherlock scrambles to the bed immediately, toeing off his shoes and sitting up, before John is on top of him, pushing him back against the pillows, kissing him roughly.

 

Suddenly thinking of something, John sits up, straddling Sherlock’s hips and pinning his wrists to either side. “I need you to let me know somehow if you need me to stop.”

 

Sherlock snorts. “Not necessary.”

 

“I disagree . I think it’s very necessary. We are going to have a safeword or else we’re not doing this. That’s an order.” He raises an eyebrow and fixes Sherlock with the best Captain-y look he can muster. Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fine. I will hold up two fingers.” He wiggles out his index and middle finger on his right hand to emphasise this.

 

“Good boy,” John praises him, and enjoys watching Sherlock’s flush spread.

  
And now, because he’s had enough waiting, grabs the gag and attempts to fasten it around Sherlock mouth. The research did pay off though; it’s easy to use and fits perfectly around his chin.

 

He looks... _breathtaking,_ really. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark as they look up at him, perfect pink mouth stretched around the gag. John just stares at him for a few seconds, thumb brushing his plump bottom lip. Sherlock swallows, hips shift restlessly against John, and he makes a little noise, more of a whimper. But its soft and muted, low enough for only John to hear.

 

“You look gorgeous,” John says, and kisses his throat, reaching for his shirt buttons and divesting him of each of them, kissing each flawless inch of skin uncovered by the shirt. John mouths the sharp ridge of a collarbone and Sherlock warbles around the silicone, hips canting upward to reach him. John finally manages to push the shirt off his shoulders, and next his trousers. All of them find a place on the floor, and it’s really a testament to how much Sherlock wants this that he doesn’t complain about his 150 pound shirt getting wrinkled.

 

Instead, breathing hard and fast around the gag, he reaches for John, tugs at his tie. John thinks he’s trying to get get his clothes off but as soon as he reaches for his buttons, Sherlock shakes his head.

 

John raises an eyebrow. “You don’t want me to take off my clothes?” he asks. Which isn’t the most far fetched idea. If Sherlock really wants that…

 

Sherlock gives him a look that clearly reads _I despair of your stupidity,_ and the disgust comes off clearly even when he’s got a ball stuffed in his mouth. Deliberately, he locks his wrists together and then gestures at John’s tie again.

 

“Oh,” John whispers. “You want me to tie you up?”

 

Sherlock nods, curls bouncing, and his cock gives a twitch against John’s thigh, as if to emphasise.

 

“Well why didn’t you just _say,_ ” John teases, and slips off his tie. “Flip over.”

 

Sherlock does so _immediately,_ like he wants nothing better to do what John tells him to do. Face down, ear pressed against his fluffy pillow, he allows John to pull his arms back and twist them so they  lie wrist-to-elbow. John does know his way around a knot, and even though a silk tie is really no obstacle to Sherlock, Mr.- _I-Can-Get-Out-of-Anything_ , he doesn’t really seem to be struggling now. Once he’s secured, John bends over him, hands running down his flanks, and kisses him underneath his ear.

 

“Alright?” he asks. In response Sherlock wiggles his butt against John’s erection and makes a long, drawn out noise of impatience.

 

John smacks his arse in response and has the satisfaction of Sherlock squirming and whimpering, fingers clenching and trembling.

 

“Now _where_ is the lube, I wonder?”it’s the hardest thing to get up from the bed and go searching in Sherlock’s bedroom for lube, but there’s nothing better than getting an excellent view of Sherlock, mercifully quiet and trussed up, eyes wide and watching him apprehensively, cheeks already flushed though John has barely touched him.

 

John finds it, and spends a moment standing beside the bed and looking at Sherlock. He looks beautiful.

 

“I could wank right here, watching you,”he says wonderingly, adjusting himself in his jeans. “Could leave you like that. Hard and wanting. Punishment for all the torture you’ve put me through.”

 

John doesn’t mean it, he _knows_ he doesn’t, but something dark and primal pulls the words out of his chest. Something in him that is positively _purring_ at having the love of his life submissive and pliant and _his._

 

He reaches forward and runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair, softly. Sherlock’s eyes flutter close and then snap open when John gives a forceful tug.

 

Sherlock moans again and then John decides he’s teased the bloke enough. He climbs on the bed and settles behind him, pushing Sherlock back down against the pillows. Takes off his shirt and pulls his zipper down to free his aching cock, which is hard and leaking and lying flat against his stomach.

 

John clamps a hand down on Sherlock’s nape, keeping him pinned against the pillows, and uses his teeth to rip open the packet of cherry lube that Sherlock had stashed in his drawer, and squeezes some on to his fingers. He doesn’t take his time, slips two fingers inside Sherlock without preamble. He clenches around his fingers immediately, struggles against John’s hand, moans softly. John probes deeper until he finds his prostate, and Sherlock thrashes, half bitten sounds escaping his gagged mouth. His hips move shakily, fucking himself against John’s fingers and the empty air. His fingers twitch- probably from the need to touch himself. John bends downwards and kisses a damp shoulder, bites down just a bit to see what Sherlock would do. He’s rewarded immediately with another helpless whimper and precome leaking all over the sheets.

 

The hand in his nape moves downward, over to his chest, brushes over his peaked nipples which harden further under John’s touch. His abdomen quivers. John pinches one nipple between his thumb and forefinger and Sherlock tries to thrash but is prevented from doing so by the tie. Sweat glistens at the back of his neck, around his temples. John reaches further, leaves nothing more than a feather light brush against the man’s aching cock, and continues to pump his fingers in an out of Sherlock; a quicker rhythm now, ceaseless more than anything. Sherlock arches his back and mewls, muffled by the gag.

 

“Fuck,” John whispers. “God, I could do this to you all night, you look perfect like this. Would keep you like this all the time, take the gag out when I wanted your mouth and push it back in when I was done. Would you want that? Fuck.”

 

Sherlock pushes back against his fingers in response. “Nnnggghhh,” he says. John hopes it means _yes._

 

“God, I love you so much. The things I want to do to you, and you let me. _Jesus._ Gonna fuck you now.”

 

He removes his fingers and then grabs Sherlock by the hips and pushes in. He meets almost no resistance, Sherlock pulls him in like they were made to fit together like this. He doesn’t need to hold his wrists down because Sherlock is trapped enough as it is, flipped over with nothing to do but stay on his knees and _take it._ Without his hands to support him, Sherlock has no choice but to stay where John has pinned him down.

 

But it’s not enough, because what John loves best is Sherlock’s gorgeous _face,_ his multi coloured eyes growing wide when he feels John inside of him. So he pulls out and curls his hands around the curve of his ribs, and bodily flips him over.

 

Sherlock looked _wrecked._ His hair sticks out wildly, some of sticking to his temples. He’s already started to drool a bit around the gag, and his lips are red and just a tiny bit swollen. His cheeks are flushed high with colour and his eyes are half lidded, almost delirious.

 

“Still alright?” John asks, hoisting his slender legs over his shoulders. Sherlock nods slowly, as if too exhausted to summon his previous energy. John pushes back some of the hair from his forehead, and slips back inside.

 

Sherlock’s body arches off the bed, his chest flushed red. His throat stretched out like an offering. He clamps his ankles against John’s back. John’s fingers tighten their grip in his hair, one hand resting against the headboard for leverage and he fucks into Sherlock with quicker, faster thrusts. Sherlock is pushed back and forth with the force of it, his hair bouncing. John slips a hand under his waist and hoists him upward, settling him against the cradle of his hips so that he can hit his prostate. He can feel his wrists under his back, twisting and struggling. Sherlock’s eyes are wide open; even when he’s getting fucked hard Sherlock will never close his eyes; never miss a moment of anything.

 

John lets go of the headboard to touch Sherlock; over his abdomen, his chest, his nipples, to curl lightly around his pale throat. Under his palm his Adam’s Apple skitters. Sherlock’s cock lies flat, leaking all over his stomach, his arse clenching around John with each thrust.

 

“God, you look beautiful like this. I wish you could see yourself. Going to make you come so hard, Sherlock. Gonna- _fuck-_ ruin you for everyone else. People will see you and know someone has you, know someone fucking _loves_ you- kill anyone who touches you-”

 

The noises he make come right from his throat, soft _mmph mmph mmph_ noises that slip out under the gag with every brush against his prostate.

 

John can tell he’s close, can see it in the tightening of his body, the clamp of his ankles, knows it from the curl of his toes. Immediately he’s unstrapping the gag, letting it fall from his mouth but before Sherlock can say anything or act surprised John is kissing him; fierce and wet and possessively. Sherlock tries to kiss him back but his mouth falls open and lets John swipe his tongue into his slick mouth.

 

One, two, three thrusts and Sherlock comes with a shout, back arching and groaning around John’s name, and _that,_ John would never want to forego the sound of Sherlock’s release, _ever._ John finds a spot under his ear and presses his mouth against it, keeps fucking Sherlock even when he falls back against the pillows with a sigh. He cups the underside of his knees to keep him there, they’re already heavy because Sherlock probably doesn’t have the strength to keep them up anymore. His body is already limp and pliant, eyes half closed and mouth parted as John fucks him for just a few more seconds- until he’s  coming inside of him, teeth digging into the taunt muscle of his neck.

 

“Fuck, fuck, _Sherlock,_ ” he says around a rough exhale, and Sherlock tilts his head so his mouth is in John’s hair.

 

John falls down on top of him, too tired to try and shift his weight. Sherlock’s legs fall limply to the sides.

 

After a few seconds John kicks into action, ignoring his achy muscles.He pulls out as slowly as he can, but Sherlock still hisses a bit. He climbs off of him, and then gently turns Sherlock to his side and unties him, rubbing his thumb into the irritated skin. Sherlock still seems to be incapable of speech, so he doesn’t complain. Next he turns over and examines Sherlock’s mouth, makes sure there aren’t any welts or redness or any kind of bleeding, and picks his shirt off the floor and and wipes his mouth with it. Sherlock gazes at him the whole time, eyes unfathomable.

 

Finally he lets go of him, and Sherlock immediately plasters himself to John’s side, throwing an arm over his chest and burying his nose into John’s hair.

 

He doesn’t say anything for at least a minute.

 

John uses the time to gently run his fingers down Sherlock’s damp back, push his now-frizzy mass of curls back from his forehead, and then kiss him, very softly. Sherlock lips are a little swollen and the corners of his mouth are pink, but other than that, he seems fine.

  
“Mmmm,” he finally murmurs. “That was….very satisfying.”

 

“ _Satisfying_?” John gapes, and then bursts out laughing. “Way to really inflate a bloke’s ego, babe.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He seems to have regained some of his sass. “John, you know that you excel at sex. There’s no need to inflate your already inflated ego. Your army mates call you Three Continents Watson even though you’ve had only one sexual partner since you were sixteen. Ludicrous.”

 

John narrows his eyes and suddenly pounces on Sherlock, which is remarkably easy to do considering Sherlock is exhausted as hell.

 

“You little shit,” he breathes, and kisses him.

 

“I love you,” Sherlock says, and that, as always, is enough for John.

 

**Author's Note:**

> next up: sherlock tries to be seductive and fails. Luckily John doesn't need to be seduced. 
> 
> (also, reviews, please?)


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